


The Whipping Boy

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Corporal Punishment, Dean Winchester Whump, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Servant!Dean, prince!castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 10:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19990969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: Coming soon. A medieval AU.Most of the Kingdom may think he is incredibly lucky to have a place in the royal household, companion to the youngest Prince, no less. His father is certainly pleased with his promotion from stable lad, but Dean Winchester certainly isn't. He may have fine clothes, sleep in Prince's chambers and share in the best education money can buy, but the Prince is a right royal pain in his arse, literally.The Prince makes mistakes enough of his own accord, but their tutor Brother Alastair seems to delight in finding reasons to punish him even when he has done nothing wrong. Of course, he cannot lay his hands on the son of a King... so they might refer to him as the Prince's friend and companion, but Dean is under no such illusions, his real purpose is to be the Prince's whipping boy.





	1. Dean Winchester - The Whipping Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoneyImGood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyImGood/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover art of Dean Winchester. Created digitally in photoshop.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146072938@N08/48381996761/in/dateposted/)


	2. Dean Winchester - The Whipping Boy

“I believe I asked you to translate this passage, your Highness,” Brother Alastair waved an arm over the pile of papers, scattered for marking across his desk.

Dean watched as the prince raised his head from his books, staring at the monk with wide-eyed innocence. “I did, Brother. Into the Latin and the Greek, just as you requested. I even made a start on the French ready for tomorrow’s…”

“Aha,” the cleric’s voice held a note of triumph, and Dean ground his teeth. What was the bastard up to, now? It was almost time for Supper and the close of their lessons for the day. “So you admit your disobedience was deliberate, my young Prince?”

“But I haven’t been disobedient, sir” the Prince began, glancing briefly in Dean’s direction before his blue eyes fixed on the darkly robed figure of Brother Alastair, and Dean flinched inwardly. Why for the love of all the Saints, was he answering back?

“What day is it, your Highness?” Brother Alastair stood behind his desk, the scrape of his chair legs loud on the chequered marble tiles of their schoolroom. “Or perhaps I should ask Mr Winchester… he seems to be the more obedient of the two of you, perhaps he is also the more capable… Perhaps we should give him the opportunity to lessen your punishment by answering for you.”

The Prince shook his dark head, “No Brother Alastair, I...”

“No, he is not more obedient, or no, he is not more capable?”

“No, I have not been disobedient, so there should be no punishment.” Why couldn’t the stupid Prince just do as he was told for once? The punishment had just doubled, maybe even trebled.

Dean jumped slightly as the monk gripped his arm, just above his elbow, “Mr Winchester,” he glanced up into the cold ice blue eyes of his nightmares, “tell Prince Castiel what day it is, as he seems either insensible of it, or determined to be obtuse.”

“It’s Tuesday, Brother Alastair.”

“Quite correct Mr Winchester. Now please explain to the Prince, what his misdemeanour was.”

“On Tuesdays, we learn of the classics, Brother Alastair, paintings and sculpture in the forenoon, literature in the afternoon and language between evensong and supper.” He paused, unable to resist glancing at the Prince, who stared back at him, eyes wide, expression unreadable.

Brother Alastair nodded his shaved head encouragingly.

“French is a modern, and not a classical, language, Brother Alastair…” Dean finished, letting his own head drop, feeling another nod through the monk’s grip on his arm.

“You know what this means, my Lord,” Alastair’s voice, sibilant, full of what was to follow, made Dean’s skin crawl, “Stand and lead the way.”

Dean focused on the dimples and blemishes in the marble, as a pair of stockinged ankles, tapering into the opening of a pair of elegant leather shoes that cost as much as his father made in a year of hammering at his anvil walked past him towards the door.

He allowed himself to be manoeuvred via the grip on his arm and followed the Prince’s elegantly clad figure along the covered corridor. The fresh evening air was pleasant after the stifling heat of the schoolroom. It was mellow with the warmth of late Summer and the scent of the sweet hay scattered in the courtyard to soften the cobbles and absorb the horseshit. The first time he had come here, to take his place as Stablelad, Dean had commented on the waste to the Yardmaster, asking him why they didn’t use straw as they did in town. Master Lafitte shook his head and told him to mind his mouth. And as Dean learned, it was not because he disagreed, or minded what Dean had to say, it was out of kindness. It did not do to question orders, or show disapproval. Here, they did as they please. They wasted resources and food, even animal food, just to prove how rich they were, while in the surrounding land people struggled to keep their families and livestock alive.

\---

He lay face down on his bunk under the window. It was too hot for the shutters to be closed and the late evening light dappled the plush furnishings and expensive decorations, casting the room golden as the sun began to set. He had been brought here by one of the room stewards, a kindly, older man, who muttered apologies and small comforts to him as he carried him in his arms despite his size and laid him on his side, efficiently stripping him of the remainder of his clothing and taking his leave with a final gentle stroke of his sweat-slicked hair.

Unable to bear the pressure of the normally comfortable mattress under the mess of bruises and weels he rolled onto his front as soon as the man left, exposing his bare backside to the Prince’s bedchamber. The humiliation of having his trews yanked down in front of the serving wenches in the grand hall had burned his cheeks almost hotter than the strikes of the switch had stung his buttocks, but now he cared not. Normally Brother Alastair beat him through his clothes. And usually with a slipper. The switch was reserved for sharp strikes across his hands for minor corrections. Perhaps he should be glad Prince Michael was still on some diplomatic mission and not here administering the punishment. Dean had been told he enjoyed beating servants and preferred to use his riding crop or a horsewhip.

“I think, as this is the third reprimand in as many days, we had best make this one truly count. Perhaps seeing your companion having to stand for the rest of the week will serve as a reminder to correct your behaviour, young Prince.” The memory of Brother Alastair’s voice made him shudder and he groaned quietly as the slight movement made the back of his thighs and ass throb.

Some chance, Dean thought bitterly. He knew that half the time the Master needed little excuse to come up with his little punishments, but the Prince invariably managed to make matters worse with his seemingly innocent replies and unintentional insolence. He certainly didn’t seem to care when the punishment was administered. Just stood, quiet and impassive, his face set, eyes on Dean the whole time, while he was beaten for the things that the Prince had done. Well, let him see well and good what his behaviour had unleashed this time, Dean thought.

He moved his head, grimacing at the mess of snot and tears sticking his itching face to the soft cotton of his cushions. He would have to hide the slip in the morning or face further punishment for besmirching the fine linen of the Prince’s bedchamber. At least he would deserve it this time. His skin, initially numb was beginning to burn unbearably, and he resisted the urge to try and look over his shoulder at his own tattered flesh, knowing that the movement would cause unbearable pain. Instead, he angrily wiped the fresh, scalding flush of tears from his cheeks, determined not to whimper even into the empty room and tried unsuccessfully to find a clean patch on his pillow.

He froze instantly as the clunk of the door latch heralded someone entering the chambers. Despite his earlier bravado he automatically tried to shift to hide his nakedness. Luckily, the slight inertia of the solid oak door and the creak of its heavy hinges as it swung slowly open hid the movement of his head as he turned towards the window, as well as the faint whimper he gave, allowing him to feign sleep.

Someone gave a small gasp, and then he heard the Prince’s voice, quiet and steady. “Leave, I wish to read a little before bed.”

“Certainly, My Lord. We will return in an hour.”

Dean listened to the gentle rustling of clothes and footsteps as the servants left. No doubt, as they always did, they walked backwards bowing low until they closed the door. Dean concentrated on keeping his breathing even and his body relaxed. He was too angry to risk interacting with the Prince. It wasn’t just a matter of self-preservation if he disgraced himself his whole family would suffer, no matter how justified his rage was, he would not risk their position within the town. The patronage of the palace provided his father with the means to keep them all and pay for his younger brother's studies, no matter how much Dean resented his father for selling him into this servitude he could not, would not, put Samuel's future at risk.

“I know you’re awake.”

I’m not falling for that old chestnut, he thought, just as the scent of sweetmeats and bread caused his treacherous stomach to declare its disapproval at missing supper. The lesser half of the Prince’s second-hand punishment.

A cool hand on his fevered forehead startled him. Unwillingly, Dean opened his eyes and stared at the leaded glazing and the heavy stucco plaster surrounding the pebbled window glass. The hand on his brow disappeared and he winced as he turned his head to face the room. The Prince was awkwardly popping his buttons, pulling a hunk of bread from the folds of shirt at his waist, he shucked his heavy velvet jacket off his shoulders, dropping it haphazardly onto the floor.

He approached carefully, holding the crust, stuffed with a variety of treats, out towards Dean, who stared at him, wary and distrusting.

“You should eat something.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” Dean answered quietly, almost, but not quite keeping the resentment from his voice.

He tried to raise himself onto one elbow, wincing and biting his lip to stifle his moans, as the movement sent daggers of pain up and down his back and legs. He couldn’t deny he was hungry, but it was not normal for the Prince to be so… considerate. Perhaps he was worried Dean would suffocate him in his sleep. For some reason, the royal family thought that sharing every aspect of the Prince’s life, including his bedchambers, would make him fond of Dean. It was, Dean had thought on more than one occasion, one of life’s crueller jokes. Along with the hilarious misconception of many of the other servants that living in these sumptuous chambers and being given the best education money could buy made Dean the fortunate one. He’d happily swap places with any of them in a heartbeat and that included Alfie, the small boy who crawled through the plumbing tunnels dislodging the worst blockages below the latrines.

The food bobbed into his vision once more, as the Prince shoved it towards him. “I smuggled it from the high table. It is all I could get, Raphael was watching me far too closely. I wanted to bring you some mead or wine, but I could not think how to carry it…” the Prince’s voice trailed off into a swallow and Dean realised his own face must have shown something of what he was feeling.

He rearranged his features into something more subservient. “Please, my Lord, it was not my intention to appear ungrateful. Just set it down and I will do as you request.”

The Prince disappeared from his eye line and try as he might he could find no way to sit or lie comfortably that made it possible to free his arms to break the bread. He was just considering giving up when the Prince returned with an ewer of water and the washing basin. Dean eyed him warily, as he soaked a cloth and used it to wipe Dean’s face and neck.

“Are you not hungry?”

Dean sighed, his need for food and drink, overcoming caution and suspicion. “I can not eat without..."

“Oh,” the Prince’s eyes widened in recognition, “Oh.” He broke the bread, and scooped a smear of the sweetmeat onto the crust, holding it gently out towards Dean. “It’s minced kidney and beef,” he said earnestly. “That is your favourite, is it not?”

Dean stared at him suspiciously, but he let himself be fed, chewing thoughtfully, and that is how they continued. Until only a small section of the crust remained and Dean was full. A quiet knock at the door startled them both. The prince jumped to his feet and pushed the stool away with his feet, even as Dean moaned with the pain of his own sudden movement.

“You may enter,” The Prince called, the door opening even as they both noticed the remainder of the loaf on the bed. The Prince grabbed it and held it behind his back.


	3. Prince Castiel

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146072938@N08/48381996591/in/photostream/)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my next long story project. I will be working to complete my two other WIP before I post any more of this story, but it's quite readable as a drabble and I'm posting it now because I'm an impatient little shit and I wanted to gift the art to my good friend C.


End file.
